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slowly, inch by inch, as one of the gunmen pressed the muzzle of his gun to her back.
    Her husband came next, followed by two more gunmen. He was tall, bald, with a beard and mustache. He was shirtless. His wrists and ankles were bound. But, unlike his wife, the man’s mouth wasn’t taped. It was no longer necessary. Blood trickled over his lower lip. A wash of crimson stained his beard and chest from where they’d cut out his tongue.
    This was Sheets.
    He refused to walk. He fell over, lying on the ground. The two gunmen grabbed him by the rope around his ankles and dragged him across the dirt toward the steel cage.
    Nazir stepped through the line of soldiers and walked slowly toward the cage. He had a cold expression on his face, with a trace of anger. Nazir’s men moved aside to let him through. As they dragged the American toward the cage, Nazir watched.
    Every soldier turned and looked at him as he walked forward, toward the man who was now lying on the ground.
    They’d captured him in Damascus. A photographer from National Geographic. What kind of idiot takes his wife with him to Syria?
    They pushed them both inside the cage. The man lay on the ground. A low, muffled groan came from him. The woman stood. Somehow, she had a look of calm. She stared at Nazir as he came closer.
    Outside the cage, a soldier stood behind a video camera, framing the picture. With his eye pressed to the viewfinder, he signaled with his left hand.
    Another soldier entered the cage with a red plastic gas can and emptied it around the feet of the American woman, then doused the photographer.
    The smell of gasoline caught Nazir’s nostrils as he came within a dozen feet of the cage, just behind the photographer.
    The cameraman leaned back. He turned to Nazir and nodded politely. Nazir nodded back. When he did, the cameraman placed his eye again to the camera, then, a moment later, held up his left thumb. This signaled another gunman, who was standing to the left of the cage, smoking a cigarette. He took a last drag, then, with his middle finger, flicked the butt. It somersaulted through the air, crossing between two grates on the cage, and came to a soft landing a foot from the woman. All eyes were on the smoldering butt as it came to rest on the gasoline-soaked steel platform. All eyes, that is, but Nazir’s and the woman’s. She stared at Nazir, the man she knew was her executioner. And he stared back, without emotion, without apology, without guilt. He did not look happy; his look was simply that of a warrior, whose actions had been, on some level, predetermined. He was acting out the script that had long ago been written. It was a story of political ascendancy. Actions necessary when one’s objectives are clear. A story of jihad.
    A loud chorus of cheers began behind Nazir, but he said nothing.
    Then came the spark. Flames shot up around the American couple. Red-orange flames climbed into the sky as terrible, inhuman screams fogged the din.

 
    6
    DANIEL ROAD
    CHEVY CHASE, MARYLAND
    At 11:45 P.M., Chevy Chase Village was quiet, its shops and restaurants long since shut for the evening. It was one of the capital’s most exclusive enclaves, a gorgeous place of wealth and prosperity, its inhabitants powerful and rich, its small village a collection of excellent restaurants and high-end retailers, Starbucks and Tiffany’s within a few blocks of each other.
    The village’s pretty colonial homes sat dark and still. Streetlights every few blocks cast what little light there was, and on some roads, such as those abutting Rock Creek Park, the weak light intermingled with the overhanging tree branches, creating a spectral atmosphere, like the scene in a horror movie just before the kill.
    Daniel Road ran alongside Rock Creek Park. Its homes were larger than on other streets in the village, its lots bigger. Its owners more private. Each was set back from the street by a long driveway. Most were bordered